The Midwife's Revolt (22 page)

27

SO BEGAN OUR season of terror. The
moment I had determined that both Dr. Flynt and Mr. Thayer had been murdered, there was no rest from fear—not for myself or for those I loved: Martha, the Cranches, the Quincys, and, most particularly, Abigail and her family.

I had little doubt that it was a plot, for no other explanation served to illuminate why the lives of two patriots in the household of a known patriot would be extinguished. Further, I reasoned, of all the places in all the colonies for murder to take place, the North Parish of Braintree could signify only one certain target: John Adams and his family. But why kill Flynt and Thayer? I had not been impressed by their characters. Surely they could not have played a very large role in our struggle.

I considered other possible targets besides the Adamses. Since the early years of the war, John Hancock had been chiefly absent from town, and his wife and family were with him in Philadelphia. An assassination plot on them would have been hatched in those parts, not ours. Washington was by then deep in the South, so surely he was not the target. As I raced toward my beloved Abigail that morning, I endeavored to piece together a plot whose clues were not all present and accounted for. I believed that someone, or some group, wished to threaten John Adams’s family in order to force John home.

I had implored Richard to do nothing and notify no one until my return. I was exceedingly glad of my foresight now, for by the time I reached Abigail’s farm, I had become convinced that the news should not go beyond our circle and that reporting to the constable would do far more harm than good.

I found her hauling a bundle of dried flax into the house. She had opened the door and was holding it ajar with her rear parts as she backed into the entryway. When she saw me approach, she set the bundle down and came to embrace me. Her body felt tiny in my arms, and she was covered in a fine salt sweat.

“I’m heartily glad to see you, Lizzie. What brings you? Is there something wrong?”

She had quickly caught my bearing. I could not hide it, nor did I wish to.

“Abigail,” I said, taking her hands, “let us sit.”

“Are Mary and the children well?” she asked, her voice thin and fragile.

“They are all well,” I quickly reassured her. “None we could count among our friends are ill. Yet the news is still bad.”

“Then tell me.” She pushed aside a basket of pocky apples rescued from her ailing trees, finding room by the table for us to sit.

“Millie, could you bring us some cider from the cellar?” she said to her servant-girl. She was someone new, a day laborer I’d not seen before.

The girl did as Abigail instructed. Then little Tommy came running in, followed by Charles, whom he was shooting noisily with a popgun.

“Boys, kindly go out of doors. Mrs. Boylston and I wish to hear ourselves speak.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Thomas.

Once they had gone, I said, “Mr. Thayer is dead.”

“Mr. Thayer—Mary and Richard’s guest? But we saw him just last night. He seemed perfectly well!”

Just then, Millie came back with two mugs of cider. We fell silent until she had put them down, curtsied, and left the room.

Abigail whispered, “Was it the bloody flux? That scourge is among us again—but,” here, her expression grew dubious, “I’ve never known that dolor to carry one off quite so—suddenly.”

“No. Listen, Abigail. It was nothing natural—he was perfectly well. I believe him to have been murdered—poisoned. My suspicion is that he was poisoned with belladonna. He had all the signs.”

She looked at me as if I’d gone mad. “You must be mistaken.”

Abigail glanced down at our mugs of cider, and the same thought occurred to both of us: we pushed our mugs away.

“I’m not mistaken. And I have even worse news.”

When I was certain Millie could not hear us, I said, “Abigail, I now believe Dr. Flynt to have been poisoned, too. In my heart I suspected as much, but could not say with any certainty. I convinced myself it wasn’t so and kept silent. Now I deeply regret that silence. Perhaps, had I said something then, Mr. Thayer would still be alive.”

I was in an agony of remorse when Abigail took hold of my arm.

“You did what you thought best at the time. It is very easy to judge a thing from hindsight, when the larger truth is known. Except”—she released me, then sought my eyes—“do you know what that larger truth
is
, Lizzie?”

“What I suspect is that you’re in grave danger. There are traitors among us, those who are no lovers of the Cause.” Then, motivated to disclose all so as to lighten my heavy conscience, I added, “I have no proof, but I suspect a plot to force John home for some sinister purpose.”

There. The worst had been told. Rather than react with astonishment, Abigail was moved to smile.

“He and I have spoken of it in our most private moments. I have daily feared it.”

“But Abigail, we must thank God that between intention and act there is yet a broad chasm.” I looked at her carefully. She met my eye without flinching. “Here is my question to you: Do we tell or not? We must think through this action very carefully. Further evil that we cannot foresee may ensue.”

In asking Abigail this question, I harkened back to my conversations with Martha: How can one know good and evil when events nest themselves one within the other, like hollow wooden dolls?

Abigail was silent a full minute before she carefully began asking me questions. “Where lies Mr. Thayer?”

“In his chamber at the back of the second story.”

“And who knows of his death?”

“The servant-girl was there when I arrived.”

“Which means all the servants know.”

“And the Cranches.”

“And Martha, and Mr. Cleverly, and no doubt the children. What did you tell people about his death?”

“I made no pronouncement. The servant found him there this morning. He took a late supper of biscuits and cheese with Mr. Cleverly and the Cranches at around eleven, then retired to his room. No one saw him after that. Perhaps they assume he suffered a heart attack.”

“Has he family?”

“I know not. Mr. Cleverly might know more. I recall he came from New Hampshire.”

I could see her fine mind working by the intense movement of her eyes. She sat perfectly quiet for some moments.

We could both hear the pop-pop
of Thomas’s gun and the shrieks of the children playing in the garden.

“It is not for us to judge alone,” she said finally. “What we decide upon must be decided as a group, composed of our most trusted circle.”

“Richard Cranch,” I said.

“And my sister,” Abigail added.

“The colonel,” I continued.

“Of course.”

“Ann and Martha?” I hazarded.

Abigail shook her head. “No. I wish for people of weight and standing in our community. Whatever decision we come to, we must be beyond reproach. We may not be right, necessarily—for we have already seen how right so often becomes its opposite in hindsight—but we must be judged to have made a unified and rational decision based upon honorable motives.”

I stared at her in astonishment. “And you think Martha and Ann unworthy?”

“They are women of lesser standing in our community. It pains me to say so, but there it is. I have uttered that which must never be said again to anyone.”

I was silent. I knew she was right. “You have the mind of a statesman, Abby. John would be proud.”

“Let us pray,” she said with grim determination, “that John will never know of what he has to be proud.”

With that, we reached for our cider and, sniffing well aforehand, drank of it.

Half an hour later, we returned to the Cranches’ in Abigail’s carriage. Meanwhile, Richard had sent word for the colonel. Soon, we—myself, Abigail, Richard, Mary, and the colonel—were gathered in the parlor. It was dark and close within, as we had shut the doors and windows to prying ears on this mid-September afternoon. Mary instructed the servants not to disturb us.

Just before we took our places on the sofas, Richard informed me of another shocking fact: while I had been at Abigail’s, Mr. Cleverly had departed, with no immediate plans to return.

“He told us he had a dreadful fear of contagion, said he had family as depended upon him for their sustenance. There was also some mention of urgent business
. . .
I’m truly sorry, Lizzie,” Richard added. “He wished to take his leave of you, but we urged him on. Were we wrong to do so?” Richard looked miserably at me.

“No, no,” I hastily replied. “But where did he go? Is there no note?”

“It appears he had no time.” Richard looked down. “In any case, we thought it best that he keep his destination to himself. New Hampshire, I imagine.” Then Richard said gently, “This tragedy affects us all, but you most personally, Lizzie. I am profoundly sorry.”

I merely nodded. I should have felt grieved, but what I recall feeling most of all was—relief! All question of love or affection put aside, I was by no means ready to change my life, my calling. I would not have given up my farm. Could I see Mr. Cleverly mending fences, cleaning cow dung? I could not.

I smiled involuntarily. “Thank you for your kindness, Richard. But I have not been unduly harmed by Cleverly’s departure. He will be safe this way.”

I believe everyone in the room then cast me a glance, endeavoring to glean my true feelings. Some of those present might even have presumed Cleverly to have already proposed to me. While modesty would have prevented me from divulging such business, these were my dearest friends—indeed, my family. And so I put them out of their misery at once.

“He did not propose to me, and there was no understanding between us.”

“Well, that at least is some good news.” Richard smiled kindly.

With this confession providing relief, we now turned to our business. Richard Cranch began, “First, let me begin this gathering by saying how grieved I am by yet another death in my house. Any death in our parish is a grievous event when it occurs. But when visitors are harmed, patriots in my own house
. . .
And now to find that the cause of their deaths may not have been natural, these are grave circumstances indeed. I think I may say that we are of one mind—to do what we can to maintain both the honor of these men and the welfare of our community. Are we not?”

“We are,” everyone replied.

“Good. Then let us proceed in an orderly fashion.”

He looked at me and was clearly going to question me first
when I interrupted him. “Sir, I think we should bring in the servant-
girl to hear her precise recollections of last night. I shall serve as secretary, if you like.”

“I agree.” Richard summoned the girl, Susan, a tall, skinny creature with bad teeth.

She gave her trembling account of the previous night and early morning. “I found him, eyes staring black and ominous-like. I knew at once he were dead.”

She curtsied, and was about to make her exit when Richard stopped her.

“A moment more, Susan, if you can bear it. Did you tend to Mr. Thayer during the night?”

“He asked for tea to be brought up at about eleven thirty, sir. Said he couldn’t sleep, so I brought it to him straightaway.”

“And was it you yourself who made the tea?”

“It was.”

“And before that?”

“Before that?” she asked. “Oh, well, he didn’t ring for one of us, if that’s what you mean, sir. It were just that one time.”

“Thank you, Susan. You may go,” said Mary. “It has been a trying day. You may take the rest of the day off.”

“Oh, thank you, ma’am. I am a bit
. . .
Well, we’re all very upset.”

“Do all the servants know of our troubles?”

She nodded. “I believe so, ma’am. Hard to keep somethin’ like this a secret.” But before she had entirely left the room, she stopped and turned to Richard. “What did he die of, sir? The servants are all terrible worried.” Everyone’s eyes rolled to me.

“We’re trying to determine that now, Susan,” I replied. “But my best guess is a heart attack.”

“Oh!” she said, placing a hand to her mouth. I believe it was to cover a smile of relief as well as her bad teeth. No one could rightly catch a failing heart. Susan left.

The meeting then began in earnest. I told the group that I could find no evidence of organic illness despite a thorough examination of the body. I told them that his pupils had been unnaturally dilated. His lips had been slightly blue, his larynx swollen closed—all the signs of either a severe allergic reaction or belladonna poisoning. I had never seen either before, but had read about them in medical books.

“Still, I am certain it was either one or the other,” I said.

“But as for an allergy—he ate nothing but tea and biscuits.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Such an allergy usually follows hard upon ingestion of the substance, which is why I’m afraid I must seriously weigh the latter explanation.”

“Poisoning, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Lizzie,” said Richard.

We then proceeded to conjecture for a few moments as to why someone might have wanted to murder Mr. Thayer and Dr. Flynt.

“But Lizzie,” Richard interrupted, “are you absolutely certain Dr. Flynt died of unnatural causes as well?”

“I am now. I was not so then because there was illness in the parish, and because—well, I’d been told he had the distemper, and so my judgment was clouded. For prior suggestion often removes the spectrum of possibilities from the mind until later information opens it up again.”

Richard looked at me then with some admiration and asked, “Who told you he had the distemper?”

“Why, Martha. She tended your Billy in my absence in Cambridge and looked in on Dr. Flynt.”

“Why did she believe Dr. Flynt to have had the distemper?”

I grew uncomfortable. “I cannot account for it,” I said. “She said she saw one or two eruptions. She thought it a mild case, as he had a fever. All I saw upon examination were old scars from a childhood illness. She must have been mistaken, through inexperience. And as you know, she had a nearly fatal case herself soon after.”

He nodded thoughtfully.